


Shut Me Up

by Pluppelina



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Dark!Ed, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Power Play, Role Reversal, dub-con, mild erotic asphyxiation, top!Ed, very graphic sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-03 04:12:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/377053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pluppelina/pseuds/Pluppelina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crane is Nigma's doctor in Arkham and decides to abuse what he thinks is a weak patient. He's wrong, so very wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shut Me Up

The cell door closes and locks behind you and you grin down at him. He’s lying on the bed with a cross word puzzle of some kind, filling it out with a purple crayon. Ah, _of course_ the inmates are stealing crayons, you should’ve known that. The paper, though 

“Who did you manipulate into giving you that?” you ask him, putting on your very best intimidating voice, but he doesn’t even look up over his shoulder. 

“What’s it to you,” he simply replies, head still down, hand still going, as if he had no idea why you’d be interested in the various security breaches of the place. 

“I am the man who runs this place.” 

He finally gives you a look, even though it’s more of a sceptical one than an impressed one. 

“Oh, I’m sure you’re here strictly in your professional role,” he drawls and it’s obvious from the sound of his voice that he doesn’t believe it even enough for you to convince him of it. 

“You’ll find out why I’m here soon enough,” you say, trying your very best to seem unaffected by his arrogance. It’s hard not to be; they’re usually cautious around you right from the start as you have quite a reputation. _He,_ on the other hand, doesn’t seem the least bit uneasy. 

“Oh, I know why you’re here,” he says, still carelessly, still lying on the bed completely relaxed. From the way he looks, you’d think you were completely harmless. “You’re here to practice some power, to make yourself feel like a bigger man.” 

There is a fire in his eyes as he stands up and walks up to you, all the way up, and then he grabs your tie and to your utter amazement, you just let him. No one, **absolutely no one** , has treated you like this before. 

“Go on then,” he says, still keeping you pinned to the spot with those poisonous eyes. His hand spins your tie around it and pulls slowly until your ear is by his mouth. “Shut me up.” 

Those words snap you out of the initial shock and your brain plays the whole course of events backwards twice searching for the exact moment you lost the power of the situation but the realisation it reaches is devastating – you never had it to begin with. His grip slowly loosens and you lean back as far as you can without backing down from the challenge, and as you look into that dark determination in his eyes you realise you _like it._

You feel an irrational panic surge through your blood at that and you dive forward, claiming his mouth in a kiss that is a little more brutal than it should be on account of your desperation for distraction, and you tell yourself what you felt was merely attraction. You tell yourself that the way you’re desperately trying to master him through that kiss is all because you want him, and that it has nothing to do with the way his tongue so pliantly follows your lead or the way that it is simply _not enough._ When several aggressive attacks does you no more good than his complete disregard – because it’s not submission, what he does with his mouth, it is merely as if he is oblivious of the fact that you’re trying to make him submit – you fall back again, retreating, regrouping, trying to find another point of approach. 

His sudden laughter almost breaks you completely. It’s not a mean laugh, or a dark laugh, or even a bitter laugh. It’s an amused laugh. There is no mistaking the fact that he is simply laughing at you. 

“What’s the matter, old man,” he says, still with a ring of glee to his voice, “forgotten how to tango?” 

You try again. Going against your good judgement and several years of education on the human mind, you lean in and kiss him again, using even more teeth and tongue and still get absolutely _nothing_ out of it. It is frustrating beyond words, the way he _yields to you_. It brings you no joy at all, because there is no power in it, just the bitter taste of your own frustration that is so much more tangible because he has none. 

You withdraw again and he smiles knowingly, and the realisation that the smile is one that has been on your lips so often in similar situations hits you like a fist to the guts. You don’t get any time to ponder it or the meaning because he has grabbed you again, gotten a hold of the base of your skull this time, and he purrs “I’ll show you how it’s done” on the way in and then there it is. 

He initiated this kiss, but that is far from obvious. He pushes and you push back, so he yields, and you triumphantly push some more just to have your tongue bitten in response, bitten hard enough for you to break the kiss, except you can’t break the kiss because he’s pressing your faces together and his tongue follows yours back into your mouth and licks the taste of blood from your palate. You are too shocked and suddenly aroused to even realise you could’ve bitten him back until he’s already out of your space, giving your lips a final lick on the way out. You’re dizzy and he laughs again. 

“Breathe, doctor Crane,” he says and you do as he tells you on auto-pilot, only realising you had forgotten about it after a beat. It takes you another one to question whether it was a need for oxygen or his order that made you remember again. You suddenly swoon as your blood flow redirects itself quite abruptly and his hand pressing down on your crotch makes you realise you are fully erect. It takes all you have to not buck your hips as you have gone back to the very basic _do not show any weakness_ while frantically trying to come up with a better strategy to regain some control, any control, or at least a little knowledge of _what the fuck is going on._

All you come up with is “all your blood has relocated and your brain needs oxygen” so you do as he told you again and take a deep breath, during which everything becomes partially clearer. You are being completely dominated by this man and you want nothing more than for it to continue _and you don’t even care_. You reach up for him, grab his shoulders, draw him in for another one of those headspinning kisses but his hand lets go of your fly and comes up to your face, putting a single finger against your lips. 

“Patience,” he breaths, looking you in the eye and you think your knees will give out under you as you meet that look, see that glow, that fucking power he has taken from you in order to keep himself alive like some kind of vampire, and realise _just what it means_ that he has you dangling from his hook. You actually _whimper_ when you understand this might mean you’ll have to beg and also that _begging might not even work_. 

Once he seems satisfied of your dormancy the finger moves up your face, the hollow in your upper lip, the curve of your nose, and it’s joined by another at the point where your eyebrows meet and then those fingers move out along the curve of your eye sockets, and the last thing you see before he closes your eyelids is the look of revere on his face, as if what he is doing is sacred. You find yourself in total darkness and you become acutely aware of your elevated heart rhythm, of your erection pressed against the metal teeth of your jeans, and of his slow fingers, moving over your cheekbones and down your face like two tear drops.  They pass your jaw line and if you hadn’t been completely frozen up from the anticipation you would’ve shuddered as they slowly moved down your neck. 

They reach your shirt collar and must be joined by the rest of his hands as it’s turned up and your tie is pulled over it and up, up, up until it’s securely tightened right above your Adam’s apple. You immediately feel the effects of this as your head suddenly feels bigger and you’re aware of how the throb of your jugular makes the tie jump every time your heart beats. You swallow hard as his hands start to undo your shirt buttons, standing passively by and feeling how your heartbeat seems to take up more and more of your brain capacity. You can still breathe properly, it’s not that; it’s the way the blood flow is cut off. It works like a cock ring for your head, making you unable to come to any logical conclusions and unwanting to do anything about it. The agonizingly slow progress he’s making with your clothes seems much more important, but you don’t bother to do anything about that either; you’re sure it would do you no good anyway. 

After what feels like forever the last button slips out of the hole, and for a moment nothing happens. Then his mouth is at the base of your neck, you can feel his breathe ghost across your skin, and you think he’s going to kiss you but he doesn’t; he merely _smells_. You wonder if the scent of your ever-growing desperation is as attractive to him as his would be to you and that sends another wave of adrenalin through your system, your heart speeding up even more, and your head feeling even more clouded as your cock desperately strains against the denim of your jeans. 

He makes a sound of approval at that, somewhere half between a groan and a pleasant “mm”, and you can’t help the moan that manages to escape your throat. You feel his grin as the air he breathes out in little puffs moves down over your chest, passing your collar bones and over your heart. It feels almost like butterfly kisses and when he reaches your belly button you’re so close to grabbing his head and pressing it against your groin it’s embarrassing. You make yourself wait patiently because you know how this game works; if you just play your part like he told you to you will be rewarded for it eventually. Angering him would be most counterproductive. 

He keeps moving down, even slower now it seems, but he doesn’t go low enough. He stops just above your pant line, pauses there for an insanely long time until he _finally_ seems satisfied, letting out a groan of “ _good_ ” before he stands again. His hands are on your shoulders now, pushing your shirt down over your arms until it snags around your wrists; he hasn’t undone the cuffs. When he reaches around you, you think that is what he’s going to fix, but then his hip touches your groin and every reasonable thought explodes in white pleasure and is beaten down by the blood pressure in your head that is reaching an alarming level. 

When he leans back again you realise he did no such thing; he must’ve twisted something somehow because you cannot move your hands any longer. It doesn’t feel like a big loss when his fingers move up over your arms again, dragging his nails into your skin lightly, making you aware of just how vulnerable you are and just how hard that makes you, and if you hadn’t known it was a sure-fire way to anger him you would’ve humped him or the wall or yourself or _anything_ , just to get some friction where you so badly need it. It takes so much willpower but you manage not to, not even when his hands are on your shoulders again and press you _down_ , make you fall onto your knees that hit the concrete with a thud. The way they start to pulsate seem secondary compared to the pulsating in your head and your groin and then you hear the sound of his fly opening and it _certainly_ doesn’t matter anymore when one of his hands grab you by the tie and pull you in against his hard cock, which you eagerly swallow unbidden. To finally get some kind of actual physical contact is so good you can’t help moaning and once you’ve started you can’t stop, the sounds of pleasure coming out of your throat with more frequency than they do his as you do your very best to please him. If you hadn’t had the silken strangler, you would’ve had to tell yourself you were only doing it because you knew it meant he’d reciprocate, but now with your brain turned into one big second heart, you have no need for those lies. The simple truth is that you are so horny and that the taste of him on your tongue is the only pleasure you are being given and that you are determined to make the very most of that one pleasure. Bringing him closer is bringing you closer and any small rebel thought of teasing him is dismissed immediately because you have one priority and one priority only; to give him the best fucking orgasm of his life. 

It doesn’t take you very long, with one of his hands pulling your tie and the other pulling your hair and thus setting the rhythm for himself. He comes with only the tip of his dick in your mouth, making sure you taste every last drop of his sperm before swallowing it, and the groans he is making are only rivalled by your own. You’re sure you’re going to come on the first stroke, he’ll probably just need to _breathe on you_ , and you sit back on your heels, waiting for him to do something, anything, the anticipation growing by the minute, making your heart beat faster and your cock pulsate stronger and your breaths come in more shallow, and then, when you ‘re certain you’re going to explode from the sexual tension, he pulls your hair in a way that makes your head snap back and your eyes open, looking up to meet his. 

“Why are you still in my room?” he hisses viciously. “Are you waiting for some kind of reward?” 

And the realisation that he _can_ do that, that he holds enough power over you to deny you your orgasm for ever and fucking ever is so much of a turn on that you come in your pants, completely untouched, half a strangled cry escaping your throat and your jugular so very expanded and pressed so hard against the tie you feel like it’s going to break, and as he lets go of your hair you collapse forward onto the floor headfirst, unable to catch yourself as your hands are still stuck in your shirt. You ride the orgasm out and once it’s over you feel completely spent; it was the best sexual experience you can ever remember having. Your mind is just starting to rearrange itself again when his voice, deadly and silken, says something that’s going to echo through your head in wet dreams several months into the future. 

“I thought you told me _you_ were in charge of this place.”


End file.
